


Broken Mirror

by eltheking



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Established Relationship, Eventual Romance, Friendship, Hate to Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, and lots of really difficult hanzo, i'm sorry blizzard, jesse slowly recovering his memories also, lots of confused and sad jesse, two idiots fuck up their pre established relationship then try to fix it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eltheking/pseuds/eltheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an accident on an Overwatch assignment in Laos, Jesse McCree is left with no memory of who he is and was- let alone anything about the people around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @eltheking <3  
> Inspired in part by @AlmaMeDuele 's amazing work Hang The Fool; http://archiveofourown.org/works/7127210/chapters/16186526  
> Consider parts of this an homage to such an amazing fanfic ^^  
> Inspired in other-part by the amount of lazy amnesia-trope fanfiction I've read on Quotev. I didn't think they emulated it well- and I wanted to try to do it right. Ft McHanzo, and eventually some McKisses, but first some McPain :'0  
> Enjoy!

He drifts in and out, in and out. In like the tide, out like a light. Dragging slow but certain, then gone in a heartbeat. No glow left behind.  
When the tide comes in, he’s acutely aware of a pulse thrumming in his ears. When the light snaps off he doesn’t even notice, he just floats contentedly in faux-consciousness. It seems to last forever. _Why shouldn’t it_.

 _The tide comes in._ There are sounds, there is pain, suffocated by the haze that washes over him. _Intoxicating_ . He doesn’t know where he is or who he is, and for all that it is worth he doesn’t care to know either fact.  
There is one thing he knows that prologued the nothingness. It’s a blur, but when the tide rises it plays back beneath the haze like a broken record. Blue streaks, reddened vision, pricks of pain punctuating his body, surrounded by geometric chaos. Slipping, falling. He doesn’t hit the ground. Repeat until the light goes out.

He has another thought that exists separately from the haze and the broken record. It is that when he opens his eyes now and again, distorted as the figure is, he is almost entirely sure that he is faced with an angel. Something about the yellow hair resembles a halo. And she is saying his name- even though he doesn’t know what that is. He’s pretty sure it’s his name. But he repeats to himself, _he doesn’t care to know, does he?_  
Instead he focuses on her muffled voice whenever it is that she is around, whenever her visits coincide with the rising tides. It sounds like… silver, he thinks. The chime of silver bells. Soft, calm, celestial in nature. He has a feeling he hasn’t lead a strictly religious life, but she’s an angel alright. The image lulls him back to drifting, and then the lights shut out.  
They do not come back on for some time.

When the darkness begins to lift for the (… fifth? _Sixth?_ ) time, he finally feels a body trapping his stray consciousness. He wonders what it looks like. His fingers twitch without him willing it. There is a noise. It sounds like gasping, someone struggling for breath. His mind’s about to link it to something else, but it escapes him when he realises it _is_ him. The heavy rise and fall of his chest through the numbness. Something’s digging into his arm and it _hurts it fucking hurts._

“Jesse, _Jesse- fuck!_ ” This isn’t the angel. This isn’t the silver voice. “Stay with me, Eastwood-”

Now Jesse, he’s sure that’s him. Eastwood? _No, those names don’t go together_ , he chides himself. So who is he? Jesse _who?_ There’s another name he goes by, he thinks. A slick, fond grin pulls at his lips.

This time the lights don’t go out, there’s a fade to black. _Guess that’s an upgrade_ . He’s choking, almost laughing at his own _stupid inner joke it wasn’t even a joke._ The dimming world falls down around him, and the sound of cursing becomes but a faint mumble, and then nothing.

The tide doesn’t come in, per se. No, this time it snaps on like a light, harsh and blinding in his eyes and he’s sat bold upright choking because there isn’t enough air in the room- no, in the _world_ \- to fill his lungs.

“ _Jesse!_ ” Not a beat passes before the Angel is stood by his bedside, one hand on his shoulder asserting a gentle pressure. This is the one with the silver voice, the image is clearer but it is still a little hazy. _Well, if she ain’t pretty as a picture._ “Thank goodness you’re awake--” There’s a throbbing in his head; feels like a cage of bullets ricocheting off of the inside of his skull. He doesn’t know why he thinks of bullets. She’s pressing a finger to the device by her ear. “Winston-- he’s awake, yes-- just now. You should visit him.”

He idly notices the accent that carries in the strains of her words. Her voice says maybe Germany; light undertones of lilted pronunciation shine through certain words, the way she clearly, pointedly enunciates each syllable, likely by no conscious decision of her own. It occurs to him that he is probably under some anaesthetic, because “Jesse” is the only thing he knows, and he doesn’t seem that panicked at all. Maybe it’s the haze, making all his feelings jumbled and wooly. Coming to this realisation strikes a cord though. Beneath it all, there’s an ugly twist of trepidation in his gut.

The lady- a doctor, he now recognises, has a soft but clinical smile as she tries to steady him. It’s fond, familiar, professional. She’s saying something to him again but he’s now looking around the room: white walls, white floor, white bedsheets, white flowers on the bedside table and on a metal desk beside that lie what he can only identify as _some broken arrows_.

_Blue streaks. Slipping, falling._

“Where am I--” He blurts out- sensitivities and formalities be damned, he’s in a room with a stranger and can’t remember a thing _except being shot_. Had he the composure, he might have managed a coherent explanation- instead he finds himself rattling off frantic questions one by one with no regard for how he sounds. “The hell’s going on-? What happened?”

“Calm down, Jesse-” He does not calm down. Her fond voice takes on a tone of worry that he doesn’t know why he recognises- it perplexes him to no end. “You’re in the medbay. There was an accident with the teleporter- on the mission in Vientiane. We think it was sabotaged, Satya has been looking into it. You were hit by scatter arrows, and fell off the rooftop- Genji managed to catch you but by that time you’d sustained a lot of damage.”

His head is swimming ( _still feels like bullets_ ), and his eyes fix on his hands as he attempts to process her words, but it’s too much and he wants to scream. _Satya? Genji? Mission? And why the hell were (are?) they in Laos?_ One question stands out above the others though, and before he can think to stop himself it just slips from his mouth a bit too aggressively-

“Who the _hell_ are you--?” And then a pause, that stretches out. And damn, he’s cut the pretty girl bad because for a second behind those clinical eyes, she looks like she’s about to cry. The penny drops. She shifts, glances at the monitor beside him. Pulls in a breath, her mouth forms a thin frown, she furrows her brow.

Her shocked silence is cut into when the door slams open and a bolt of green comes to a halt in front of him.

“Hey hey, Eastwood-” The man that skids in flashes a grin and leans the heels of his hands against the foot of the bed. He bounces animatedly on his toes, and his thick tresses of hair bob in the fervent motion. A delicately scolding voice mutters into his head- _you’ll hurt yourself if you skate inside like that_ \- it’s the voice of the medic and she didn’t actually say that. “Good to see you awake, buddy! Had me worried.”  
Is it something he remembers?

There’s too much light, too much energy- it’s blinding, burning, overwhelming his senses with information he can’t take in. His body does the only thing it can to defend himself. The lights turn _out_.

\--

Jesse awakes without a haze now. He’s half-grateful he can feel, but thanks to this he is now astoundingly aware of how empty he is with nothing but a first name and a couple of useless damn memories. He remembers being shot, and he remembers the voice of the medic scolding the man in green for skating indoors. He decides he’d rather reflect on the latter. If he can’t work out who he is himself, may as well try to do the next best thing and remember someone else. He does his best to quell the fear rising up in his throat.  
He’s wracking his brain for a name to stick to that face when the door to the darkened medbay sweeps open. The angel stands there, framed in light. _Pretty as a picture. Pretty as a god damn picture._

“I am sorry I was not here when you woke up.” She says, the door shuts, she flicks on the lights. She’s by the bedside in an instant. “I understand you must be feeling confused.”

 _No shit_. Then he feels bad, wishes he could take back that thought- glad he’s got more of a brain-to-mouth filter than before, if only out of politeness. But panic is gnawing deep at his core. He’s fidgeting with the sheets. There’s a sad warmth to her eyes.

“You remember what I told you last time? About what happened?”

He nods uncertainly, slowly. She sighs ( _relieved?_ ) and smiles just a hint-

“Gut, gut-” _German_ , he thinks. “So your memory loss is not continuous. I had Athena- er, the computer system- run some tests on you. The trauma to your head when you fell has caused some degree of amnesia. I can not yet tell what degree this is. You will have to help me.”

Another careful nod from one, another smile from the other.

“Trust me, though you may not know me now,” A pause, her breath hitches ever so delicately. “I am a friend.”

Her name is Angela Ziegler, she says she is a friend, they’ve known each other for a long time and while there is no reason to trust her words he feels like he should. So he does. She asks him questions ( _How are you feeling? Do you know your name? Do you remember Overwatch? The Omnic Crisis?_ ) and he answers as best he can ( _Empty. Jesse. No. Yes._ ).

“Your surname- or what you are better known by- is McCree.” Angela reminds him.

“Jesse… McCree.” Jesse tests out the name, it rolls off his tongue smoother than satin- good, _good_ , familiar; _reminds him_. “Sounds ‘bout accurate.”

“How so?” She cocks her head.

“Can’t quite explain it, but it feels right. Like I’ve said it before- an’ heard it before. I could’a--” He stops when he realises, something comes back to him-- (She nods as if to will him to go on.) “I could’a swore I just heard about a hundred different voices sayin’ it.” He swallows thickly- she must think he’s insane- “Y’know. Sayin’ it’s right.”

Something behind her eyes changes. “Can you tell me who?”

 _Gimme a break--_ but it’s working. He scrunches his eyes up in concentration- “Well-” This is stupid, he shouldn’t be talking, _he shouldn’t let himself just talk like thi-_ “I think one was my ma. I had… a bunch’a siblings--” _Can’t remember how many, huh?_ “And they all called me Jess--” He becomes uncomfortably conscious of how she leans in. But there’s no judgement, just a piqued curiosity, interest- something’s riding on his words. Which feels odd, since he’s saying this as he remembers it. “I only got the full works when I’d been up to no good, an’ ma’d find out, an’ gimme an earful.” _What if he’s wrong?_

There have been moments of comfort amidst the cold unforgiving waking world since he came out of the haze- but nothing compares to the warmth that blossoms in his chest when he can practically hear his ma yelling in his head; _Jesse McCree, you come down here right now young man, you’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do!_ And he forms an image, her brown messy curls scraped back into a bun, harsh brown eyes, a farmer’s tan- the way she leans to one side and puts her hands on her curved thighs in aggravation--

Angela doesn’t push. She moves on. His answers get longer, less cautious. Anecdotes override monosyllabic grunts, and the whole conversation feels like a therapy session- which is what he supposes it is.

A loud buzzing sound emits from the console and it makes him jump. Angela glances over warily, there is a light flashing urgently on the screen and the buzzing that accompanies it only gets louder and needier. It sounds almost like it’s whining in its bid for attention, when Angela deftly swipes her fingers across the screen and puts an end to the incessant noise ( _his headache’s coming back_ ).

“I need to go.” Angela tells him softly, “I have to talk with Winston. But do not worry, I will be sure to leave you in capable hands.”

The vulnerability comes flooding back to Jesse the moment she says this. He tries to shake off the fact that he doesn’t want to be left without her now that he’s come to trust her. He tries to think he doesn’t need to be babied and looked after, that he can handle this on his own. Her fingers are nimbly dancing on the console screen again.

“Athena, where is Agent Hanzo?”

A whirring fills the room, a metallic voice comes out of nowhere and it chills Jesse to the bone-

“ _Agent Hanzo signed in to Training Range 2 at 0132 hours. He is yet to sign out._ ”

 _0132 hours?_ What ungodly time _is_ this? In the corner of the screen of the brightly lit console he sees what he assumes to be a 24 hour clock next to the date.

_25/07- 03:43_

Angela’s tapping something into the device again, the room is filled with calmer buzzes and beeps he can only define as _generic computer sounds_. She turns back to him, smiles, nods- she does that a lot. He’s sure.

“I have sent him a message, he should be coming here from the training range soon.” Her hand hovers over the door handle for a second, and she adds- “Please try to stay in bed and get some rest.”

\--

Jesse spends the next fifteen minutes trying to picture his ma again. The angry side with her nails digging into her hips, taut frown, voice that a deaf man could hear just fine. And the softer side- smells of baked cherries and pastry and a smile that warms up her round face, wrinkles her eyes, shows her age in a positive light. Her crinkled yellow dress, white polka dots, an apron smeared with jam and flour. She owned a bakery, he thinks. Maybe. She made damn good cakes, and brought home spare moon pies on days where there were some left. He liked the vanilla ones most.

He’s caught in his thoughts when the door opens- he hopes for a moment it’s Angela- that she’s returned, the talk was only five minutes, she could come back to comforting him. But instead what he’s greeted with is something completely different.

 _Damn_ . The man who’s standing at the other side of the room, closing the door behind him with a satisfying _click_ , makes Jesse once again question the existence of god. He’s not tall but what he lacks in stature he makes up for in the lean solid build of his muscles- Jesse knows this because half of the man’s chest is not covered, and his eyes are drawn immediately to the tattoo that curls around his arm.

Angela was pretty, a fine girl, he couldn’t deny. But this? This was _unfair_.

Those thoughts drain out of his head like water when the man turns his head to face him though. _Those eyes._ He’s seen those eyes, he-

Jesse reels back against the frame of the bed that clatters with a loud metal thud against the wall.

“You _shot me!_ ”

“Jesse-”

He has no other words, but a terrified heat that rises up to his face- he _knows_ those eyes, he’s _seen_ those eyes. The arrows- the blue- the pain in his muscles twinges- “ _You fucking shot me!_ ”

And silence. A deafening silence. It descends over the room like a smog. The kind where the tension is palpable; the air is suddenly thick and hot and suffocating. The man attempts to take a step forward (the sound of steel tapping the floor- prosthetics?), Jesse only pushes himself further against the end of the bed. He’s gritting his teeth, bristling, his jaw is clenched.

The man can take a hint, he stops, one foot in front of the other. His face is weary (it is nearly 4am), there’s an attentive air about him, freezing up so as to not to scare away a wild animal. That sort of look. He tests the water. His voice is low in the quiet.

“Do you not remember me?”

“I remember you _shot_ me.” Jesse retorts. A silenced pause passes and Jesse swears he can see a slew of unreadable thoughts flicker behind those hard eyes. In any other case this would be cruel. Jesse has no sympathy for a man who shot him though. Five… _six_ times? There’s no time to count the pricks of dull agony in his body. The man snorts derisively.

“Of course.”

Jesse observes the way he shifts, vocally and physically, to a more defensive stance. His stature is austere, casually aloof, his weight on one foot while the other is still pointed out a little ( _like a dancer_ )- stance and gait can say a lot about a man. He holds his head high- _regal_ , his eyes have gone steely and hostile where for a fraction of a second when he’d first arrived they’d been relieved and welcoming. Or, maybe that was in Jesse’s head. Maybe he was being vain. Why would the man that filled him with arrows be happy to see him alive?

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” He ventures. The man flicks his head dismissively- a rogue bang swishes to the side and comes to rest just beside his right eye.

“It means,” He clicks his tongue- Jesse immediately can’t stand the sound. “That sounds like something only a fool would say.” His eyes darken. Jesse gets the message, he’s the fool, huh? That sounds oddly familiar. So they aren’t on good terms, clearly.

He’s all geared up to pick a fight- is that what this guy wants? Would it irritate him more if he was dismissive? Jesse concludes that passive is the right way to go. It pissed him off when his question was dismissed- maybe it will work vice versa.

Still, he throws a little salt in the wound, flicking his head in a mock-similar fashion. To discard the statement. “So, what’s your name, pardner?”

“Hanzo Shimada.” He looks like he expects a reaction. Jesse doesn’t give him the pleasure.

“Jesse McCree.” Jesse’s head dips forward instinctively, his hand hovers just above his brow. As if tipping a hat. He doesn’t have a hat but he feels like he should. It’s only half a mocking gesture.

It’s subtle but Hanzo rolls his eyes. It’s a look that says _I know who you are, idiot_. No comment.

Just like that they fall back into the smog silence. Jesse pulls back further when Hanzo starts to move to sit down by the console. Hanzo seems to relish in the awkward, unfriendly silence, or at least, he deals better with it than Jesse. Jesse can’t believe on first sight he found this man so attractive. His personality, it seems, does such a criminally pretty body no justice.

In defeat, he sinks back into the sheets. One last glance at Hanzo before he closes his eyes. He tries to block out the stare, and go back to thinking of his home. His ma, his brothers, his sisters, eating pies on the front porch in the late afternoon. Yellow polka dot, the prickle of sunburn, moments alone in the shade.

 _The light goes out_.

\--

When Jesse wakes up the medbay is like he left it- white, bright, and Hanzo’s still there. Only now he’s asleep, slumped against the console snoozing softly. The console whirs unhappily, Jesse assumes from the contact of Hanzo’s face on the touch screen. The pacific blue glow highlights the shadows under his eyes. So he’s been here all night.

Somehow, he still manages to retain a kingly look about him, even when dozing. But less hostile- a little stiff at most. Maybe even tranquil- Jesse doesn’t know. He tells himself that he doesn’t care to know either. But the image brings to mind a creature watching over their child; it is protective, and should anyone walk in he can almost picture Hanzo lashing out at them for stepping too close…

This is ridiculous. He shoves the thoughts out of his mind.

He sits up, and that’s when he sees the plate resting on the bedside table. What looks to be some cake and a small fork, and next to it a cup of tea going cold. _Hōjicha_ , he thinks, though he’s not sure why he knows it. There’s a little note by the plate, with little scribbles down the side in kanji. Someone ( _you know who_ ) had trouble writing this;

 _I had thought_ ~~_yu_ ~~ _you would have hunger. -Hanzo_

Now Jesse doesn’t know how long he’s been out for, but his stomach agrees to the testament of the broken English with a loud and insistent rumble. It feels like an age since he’s eaten. He literally can’t remember the last time he ate. Despite himself a snort of laughter escapes him at this last thought; _Jesse McCree, master of self-deprecating comedy._

After sparing himself a moment of _completely warranted_ inner joking, he begrudgingly takes the plate. Suppressing a twinge of suspicion, Jesse inspects the cake ( _Victoria sponge, cherry-topped_ ), letting out a long, long sigh, before he begins to pick at it with his fork.

It’s gone within the space of about 30 seconds. Needless to say, it was fantastic.

Though the taste that lingers in his mouth is sweet, he’s left with only a bitter thought;

_Hanzo- 1, Jesse- 0_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you managed to sit through about 1250 words of high, semiconscious Jesse's inner monologue- I salute you :')  
> Thank you for reading so far! If you're enjoying it, if you've got ideas, criticisms, anything- just leave a comment, I live off feedback!  
> Notes:  
> -Hanzo is super difficult. Ick.  
> -I headcanon that he kind of sucks at writing in English. The whole new alphabet and stuff- and his grammar isn't exactly on point.  
> -Jesse fixating on strong emotions to fill up the confused and empty void *throws confetti*  
> -Chapter two and half of chapter three are actually written. They just need ~editing~  
> -Hope you're enjoying my dumb fic! McHanzo vibes will show up soon, I promise <3


	2. Chapter 2

The cigarillo tastes smoky on his tongue. He rolls it between his teeth. The medic’s voice punctuates his thoughts- _filthy habit_ \- he can picture her plucking it from his lips.

Sleep had evaded him for a long part of that day. He had pretended to be asleep when Hanzo woke up to avoid further contact, or an awkward thank you. The tea had been lukewarm. It was far from unpleasant. The cake had been delicious, and it had kept pulling him back to the fond home memories.

Angela had come back eventually, tired shadows ghosted on her face. She’d given Jesse one last medical exam and then permission to go freely, after pushing a little tube of pills into his hands. _For the pain_ , she’d explained, _Twice a day, when the anaesthetic wears off_. She’d led him back to his room, before departing for the medbay.

All the rooms in the Gibraltar base have a similar structure. He knows because he saw a few others on the way past, doors left ajar or people entering or leaving with tentative waves (he’d wave back out of politeness). They’re white-walled with a single bed, a window, a bathroom, a mini fridge, two chairs, a touch-screen console and a desk. What makes them their own is the things they’re decorate with. Jesse’s room is ‘decorated’ with some empty cans, a half-full bottle of bourbon on the windowsill, a small, tattered rug and a significantly more tattered ( _that was impressive_ ) red serape that hangs over the side of the bedframe. The desk is littered with cigarillo boxes, the drawers have ammunition and his guns (of which there are many, he notes) inside- and the floor has a makeshift carpet of discarded garments. There are a few pictures of himself with other people on the wall next to the bed. So he can look at them at night, he supposes. He doesn’t know who they are though- except one, one has Angela in it.

By his bed there had been a hat lying on the floor. Looked like it’d had an arrow shot through it, then the hole crudely sewn up. It was dirty and old. He had picked it up and put it on his head and immediately felt a little better. In similar fashion, he’d picked up a stray cigarillo lying on the desk, rooted around for a lighter, and then relaxed as much as one possibly could. Which is where he is now, lying back on his bed.

He finds some comfort in twirling the cigarillo between his teeth- it leaves a bitter, hot taste in his mouth. There are burns on his arms that he can now tell came from putting them out on his skin. He doesn’t know why he’d do that. Maybe it was someone else ( _the medic? No way, too kind_ ). He lies there for a few minutes staring at his arms. They’re far from smooth, between the thin swathe of dark hair that coats one forearm (the other being a rusty old prosthetic from the elbow down) and the remnants of cuts and scars forming pale lines and dents to contrast the reddish burn of his skin. He reckons he probably doesn’t look half bad. Needs a shower though. His hair feels terrible.

He doesn’t move an inch. He thinks about what he knows; _I was shot by Hanzo Shimada after a teleporter accident on an assignment from “Overwatch”, which is the organisation I work for. After falling off a rooftop in Vientiane and hitting my head_ \- a dull ache in his head coincides with this thought and he almost chuckles ( _good timing_ )- _I was caught by a fellow teammate and brought back to the Headquarters in Gibraltar, where I was treated by medic Angela Ziegler. I can remember: 1. The above. 2. My name. 3. Some of Angela’s voice. 4. Snippets of my early life._

The four-bullet-point-list is four points longer than it was 24 hours ago. That development has to be worth something. There are other minute and inconsequential memories that flicker in and out of his head, fleeting and unreachable for now. An idea crops up.

He hauls himself up, and pads over to the console. He kicks a can aside carelessly on the way. That’s when a flash of orange catches his eye- on the corner of the screen a bright neon post-it note is stuck.

 _Your Agent ID is “3945_45”  
_ _Your passwords is “highn00n”_

This one isn’t signed, but it’s the same handwriting as before ( _and the same grammatical prowess_ ). The ‘y’s are sharp and every letter ‘s’ is just a little wobbly- the capital ‘A’ is fine but the lowercase one has unsure strokes, and a tail that flicks down like a ‘q’. Part of Jesse wants to stride right up to Hanzo Shimada and tell him _I don’t need your damn help_ \- tell him _I’ve got a handle on this_ and work out what to do. Say _Piece o’ cake!_ and laugh at the frown of resentment that would twist onto Hanzo’s face at the sound of unfamiliar idiom. Son of a gun, _son of a gun_ . But then there are two striking flaws in this master plan of his; one, he does not know how to find Hanzo to tell him this, and two, he _does_ need the help- he _doesn’t_ , in fact, have a handle on this at all. He supposes that makes him pathetic. Brilliant. Unwarranted self-loathing. That’s just what he needs.

Reluctantly he taps his details in to the console, which, after a split second of a loading screen greets him with the onscreen text;

_Welcome back Agent McCree._

It probably does this upon every log on. He dismisses it, tapping the gentle ‘x’ in the corner, and sifts through menus and menus, lists upon lists until he comes across the Agent files. There’s a fairly lengthy selection of names, each with a picture to accompany it. He flicks through them one by one; _Lena Oxton, Angela Ziegler, Jamison Fawkes, Jack Morrison_ \- until he lands upon his own name. His throat tightens.

The light from the device illuminates the room, allowing a reflection of himself to appear on the glass next to a projection of a photograph taken presumably on his first day as an Overwatch Agent. He can’t help noticing the differences between then and now. On that day he had playful, bright eyes and a devilish smile- he looks young and happy in the picture- the very image of ruggedly handsome. Now as he stares wistfully into his makeshift mirror, his eyes are duller, more tired. He looks older, more wary, deep lines have found their way into his face. His cheeks are not as defined, his hard jawline unseen under messy facial hair. And his hair looks like it needs a god damn wash.

Nevertheless he swallows back the thick uncertainty that’s clogging his throat. He pushes the pad of his finger against the image, and a form appears beside his face.

_Agent McCree_

_Full Name: Jesse McCree_

_Age: 39_

All seems normal, good, he skim-reads the whole form. Apparently he has ‘enhanced marksmanship’, under the qualifications tab. He tries to read through his history but nothing much sticks out to him. There’s nothing further back than the fact that he joined Overwatch after the Overwatch recall a few years ago to this very base. Apparently he was recruited then. Something shifts uncomfortably in the back of his mind. He can’t find anything to fill the years beforehand with.

The form is relatively useless. He reads it over and over again ( _Full name Jesse McCree. Age 39. Enhanced marksmanship. Recruited in the Gibraltar recall._ ) until he hears a knock at the door and nearly jumps out of his seat. He glances at the time displayed in the corner of the console. 1932 hours. He walks over to the door.

Jesse’s greeted with the boy from before- he’s not skating anymore ( _you’ll hurt yourself_ ) but standing on two prosthetic feet, and smiling up at Jesse. Jesse realises that he’s significantly taller- the young man grins.

“Good to see you up- for real this time!” He lets out a little laugh (his hair bounces with the movement of his head again and it’s oddly relaxing to look at) before going on to explain himself; “Reinhardt wanted to know if you want to come for dinner? It’s no sweat if you don’t- I can bring some over here if that suits you better?”

Jesse feels exhausted already just talking to him- no just being _talked to_ by him. But the kid means well, he can tell.

“Sure means a lot you’ve come to see me.” He says- it’s all he can do- his voice is weaker than he intends, he’s shocked by the sound. Luckily the kid doesn’t seem to notice, and then a mutual smile passes between them. “I ain’t feelin’ up to a whole dinner with everyone jus’ yet.” Jesse explains, the kid nods understandingly.

“Say no more, my dude-” A look of determination fills his bright eyes, his exuberant grin. “I’ll be back with your food in five.”

And just like that he dashes off. Jesse stumbles back to the computer, his fingers clumsily slide over the screen until he finds a picture he recognises- _Lúcio Correia dos Santos_ \- yeah, that sounds right.

Oh.

_Oh--_

Suddenly it makes sense. He was the one in the medbay back when he was really out of it-

_Stay with me, Eastwood!_

That’s a nickname. A _nickname_ . It’s a reference, he thinks. He can’t recall what to, but it is.  
A blurry image forms in the forefront of his thoughts- he’s sitting around a table with Lúcio and ( _someone else_ ), they’re talking about old westerns from the early 21st century and laughing. ( _someone else_ ) is particularly surprised Lúcio knows half the references- he says in a jolly tone _That was way before your time, young man!_ and they all end up piling in front of _The Lone Ranger_ playing on the console in the rec room.

Jesse feels dizzy when the moment finally fades, like the flash of the past had taken all the energy in the world to show him. He sits there until the door knocks again and Lúcio is there with a tray full of food.

“Figured you’d be hungry, buddy- being out cold for the good part of two weeks. Thought I’d grab you a li’l more from the fridge.” He shoots Jesse a wink, hands over the tray. “If you feel comfortable with it, we usually spend the evenings in the rec room. Come by-- only if you want to.”

Jesse’s face is once again red with awkward heat at the kindness. But then he’s smiling almost immediately. “I’ll consider it.” He says- “Thanks, kid.” A pause. “Lúcio.”

Lúcio’s eyes widen even further in half-shock, mostly-delight at the sound of his name. He’s flattered, grinning ear to ear, bouncing on his toes again. Jesse swears he hears a little high pitched noise emit from Lúcio’s mouth.

“Anytime, Eastwood!” He laughs- the laugh barely contains the excitement bubbling up in his voice- Lúcio snaps and points finger guns at Jesse, then he’s gone down the corridor without another word. He leaves Jesse standing in the doorway with the tray of food in his hands, smiling. One of the first proper smiles since he woke up.

\--

It’s almost nine when Jesse wanders rather cautiously into the rec room, having taken directions from Athena then managing to take the wrong turn a good three times. There’s a quiet ambient buzz of chatter, that stills only for a moment when he appears, before happily rising once again. Lúcio bounds over to him.

He’s taken it upon himself to guide Jesse around, it seems. Jesse decides not to make a fuss over it. It’s when Lúcio’s talking that he zones out, and manages to get a proper good look around.

He recognises some of the faces off the bat- names, those don’t come, but the faces spark something dull in his chest. There’s a gaggle of girls sitting around a table, one- the brunette (who for some odd reason is donning tinted orange goggles indoors)- is recounting a story while a bulky pink-haired woman fills the hall with peals of laughter. The room is flooded with a swirl of different accents but hers is quickly recognisable amidst the hum of voices- _Eastern Europe_ , he thinks, maybe _Russian_. He notes it down mentally. He has a feeling he doesn’t usually do that- maybe he should get a notebook.

Just as this thought passes by, he sees Angela is here too, she’s talking politely with an omnic, whose slightly outdated and rugged form is hovering contentedly further away from the centre of the room. _They would be the quiet ones, wouldn’t they?_ And yet every so often between bursts of noise that pulse louder to him than likely everyone else in the room, he hears the soft and soothing chime of her laughter. Funny- _never seen a bucket o' bolts make a girl laugh like that._

At a counter in what he assumes to be the designated small-kitchen-area, the tall, wiry figure of a man is hunched over and locked in a heated debate with a woman in blue.

They look like polar opposites at first- one clean, organised, even _beautiful_ , with a thick ocean of hair that cascades down her shoulders in a fashion so neat Jesse would have thought it impossible were he not seeing it with his own two eyes. The other, a mess of soot-smudged skin, burn scars and… is his hair slightly _singed?_ It is even simply missing in a few places too. The man looks up when she stops talking and then he catches Jesse’s eyes on him. She notices this, her hand comes to rest delicately on his forearm, with such caution and care as one might use when handling meticulously structured glass. Mindful of brittleness, of potential damage but also definite- so as not to allow something so priceless to drop. It is a gesture of comfort and defense. Does she think Jesse will hurt him?

The singed man simply grins a toothy grin and waves one prosthetic arm at Jesse with a wink. Jesse pauses, glancing down at his own prosthetic and the look of expectancy on both Lúcio and the woman’s face (she rolls her eyes but there’s still some anticipation in her features), and then with a well-hidden stiffness he waves back. Breaks out a smile. Tips his hat. _Same arm._

The evening passes faster than Jesse could ever have predicted. While he first thought it would drag on in languid discomfort, it is Lúcio’s constant barrage of energy that keeps him on his toes. He introduces himself first properly- _Lúcio, 28, Brazillian, Musician, Support Operative_ , Jesse writes it all down in his mental notebook- before dragging him around the room.

Three things come to pass;

 _One_ . He is introduced to a man called Genji. Jesse asks if he is an omnic- _why else would a fella’ be in full armour on a friday night?_ \- and Genji’s shoulders roll back and he laughs, electric-lime visor pointed at the ceiling in the fluid, jovial motion. Jesse, furiously blushing at the reaction, is informed otherwise. Genji _Shimada_ ( _son of a gun_ ) is Hanzo’s younger brother, and also- to put it in Lúcio’s words- a “cyborg ninja”. Jesse doesn’t question it.

 _Two_ . He’s unceremoniously clapped on the back by a man he can immediately identify as ( _someone else_ )- Reinhardt. A little small-talk is exchanged; Reinhardt is mindful of how tired Jesse looks, only asks him how he is, expresses support, and happiness that he is okay. The same goes for most of the other people he’s pushed towards by Lúcio. The brunette from before- _Lena_ , no, _Tracer_ \- is particularly excited to see him. She’s just as bouncy as the man pulling him back and forth.

 _Three_. He is becoming more and more aware of a hawklike gaze boring into him everywhere he goes. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s Hanzo, now sipping tea beside his brother and watching Jesse. He had hoped to have a good evening, push away the fact that he was empty and useless in unfamiliar territory. Hanzo is there as a striking reminder that a Jesse with no memories is a Jesse unwelcome here.

So he waits, waits until the room empties mostly, then strides up to Hanzo with his hands on the curve of his hips- like the intimidating image of ma. The room clears entirely when the last stragglers realise what’s about to happen. Jesse takes a breath- Hanzo opens his mouth-

“What the _hell_ is your problem, huh?” Jesse cuts in first. The knife-edge growl that tips his voice is _venom_ , it hacks right into Hanzo’s resolve. The man closes his mouth. Remains silent. _Damn fucking straight._ Jesse goes on; “A guy goes out, tries to make himself welcome, only to be glared at all night? In case no one taught you- menacin’ folk from the corner ain’t a friendly gesture. It ain’t polite either.”

Hanzo backs off, gently stepping closer to the wall- not by instinct, it is a calculated move. The look in the archer’s eyes says as much. Jesse inspects the hard lines of Hanzo’s face, his arrogant stance- his thick but oddly elegant fingers curling into the silky fabric of his obi. His stray, unkempt bang that sways with every tiny, insignificant movement. His furrowed brow and infuriatingly calm frown. Jesse wants a reaction, the satisfaction of seeing remorse, shock, _something_ from Hanzo.

He doesn’t expect his heart to drop so much when the reaction arrives.

Hanzo’s gaze has wandered aside, his voice is far humbler than the haughty scoff in which he spoke yesterday ( _very early this morning, actually_ ). “You really do not remember the nature of our relationship.” His voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper.

By all means, he deserves it. Jesse grimaces, pushing down the rage and guilt that’s building up in his chest. Hanzo _deserves this_ \- for treating him with disdain, hostility, making him an outcast in a place that is effectively his only home. He deserves it _the son of a gun deserves it_. So why is Jesse suddenly weak at the knees with an anxiety he can’t quell or bat away? This was meant to be satisfying.

“So be it.”

Dismissed. _Dismissed_ . Hanzo starts to walk away, holding himself high, grasping onto his pride, his composure. The click of his tongue plays back in Jesse’s head. _Of course._ Jesse turns helplessly. _Something only a fool would say_. Watches him move.

“Hey-- where’re you goin’?” He calls after- he has no handle on his own emotions. “I wasn’t _done_ \--” His voice is a messy mix of anger, resentment, guilt, _confusion_ and about a hundred other things too small and too fast to latch onto. “You can’t just-- are you screwin’ with me?!”

The silence isn’t a smog this time. It’s the purest, most maddening, deafening nothingness that the world could possibly conjure. Hanzo does not reply.

 _The nature of our relationship_.

The door shuts with the softest of ‘click’s that rings out louder than cannonfire in Jesse’s ears.

_The nature._

He stands still, shaking, scowling, for what could be hours. Then the walk back to his room feels like days of laboured pacing. He’s lying on his back in his bed staring at the damp-encrusted ceiling and years seem to pass.

The lights refuse to flicker out. He wants to scream.

  
_Hanzo- 2, Jesse- 0_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopin' you're having fun so far! If you're enjoying it, if you've got ideas, criticisms, anything- just leave a comment, I live off feedback!  
> Notes:  
> -Jesse's arms hoo boy howdy...  
> -Lúcio is a sweet little bean angel, just wants Jesse to feel happy and safe and welcome.  
> -Hanzo, stop being confusing. You're confusing even yourself. Look what you did.  
> -Genji to the rescue in chapter 3?????  
> -Forgive me for the slow start my dear readers, I just have so much Jesse I wanna talk about <3 (andsomuchforeshadowingtofitin--)  
> -Hope you're enjoying my dumb fic! McHanzo vibes will show up soon ;0
> 
> UPDATE: I JUST CHECKED AND MY CHAPTER THREE DISAPPEARED FROM AO3? I'M TRYING TO FIX THIS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, SORRY FOLKS!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @eltheking ^^ and as always, thanks for reading! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, first of all thank you all for reading this so far! I never expected such a big positive response to this fic and it gives me so much motivation seeing you all enjoying it! I hope it lives up to expectations! Secondly; this chapter did not go as I wanted to- I ended up splitting it in two over this one and the next, so sorry for that ;v; it was just too much for me to condense into one with what I wanted to fit in- so this chapter turned out to be a sort of in-betweeny… thing… I hope you enjoy it anyway! And once again thank you, from the bottom of my heart <3

The sweltering heat of high summer wraps itself around the Gibraltar watchpoint- no room is safe, no amount of cold showers can help, effectively the whole complex and each agent within is being proverbially baked. Jesse is no exception- this humidity is something else and it clings to him, manifested in a thin, uncomfortable sheen of sweat he’s tried to wash off multiple times (before accepting defeat through weary sighs).

It has been just over three days since his encounter with Hanzo, and Jesse is now under the distinct impression that the archer is _avoiding_ him. This somehow manages to feel worse than the glares and the bickering. _The nature of our relationship_ . The words twist and coil adamantly in his head, determined not to be dismissed, determined to be thought over and over and over, considered over and _over and over_. It is getting on his already admittedly short nerves. And it’s no shocker that tensions are high with everyone.

Still, he is slowly but surely becoming far more aware of the people around him. Lúcio had to push him at first, but now he’s finding it easier to walk up to folk he’s just learning to recognise. He will engage, and they are often very gentle around him when it comes to recalling stories. They talk quite slowly- sometimes that annoys him (but he’s quietly rather grateful, it gives him time to process, think back)- they help him pick up little bits of information he can remember.

Reinhardt talks to him about old movies and books from the early 21st century- _before his time,_ but he recalls them slowly- easier than he recalls people, which strikes him as rather odd. He goes off on a rant about the degrading quality of particular reboots, and it makes Jesse laugh along with him.

Lena drags him out running, she says “ _Exercise’ll make you feel better, big guy!”_ and lets him lag behind only a little while they do a lap of the HQ. She yammers on about her day, slipping in little anecdotes from the past that feature Jesse, and while Jesse isn’t quite functioning well enough to keep up with her fast paced movement _or_ talk, he appreciates the effort she puts in. They end up chuckling over new born in-jokes.

A charmingly cheeky Korean girl named Hana of a mere 21 introduces him to one of her favourite bands- 2040’s Synth-Pop sensations _4 Dimensions_ \- _“they’re so vintage- aged so well- I love their song ‘GG/EZ’”_ \- needless to say, they are not very good (the 40’s was a dark time for synth-pop), but he is too polite to share this insight. She also challenges him to a game on the old X Box Seven- and not only beats him but destroys his whole team. He challenges her over and over until he accepts defeat at a staggering 18 wins to 2.

Lúcio hands him a little chip with a playlist, tells him it’ll make him feel better, give him energy for what it’s worth- maybe even spark a few memories- and Jesse lets him talk animatedly about his work in music therapy, his job as an audio medic, the new album he’s working on. It occurs to Jesse at some point during this conversation that Lúcio may be the kindest soul on the whole god damn planet. How he’s so patient, how he puts up with Jesse’s clumsy speech riddled with pauses and hums as he fumbles over his words, how he actually actively opts to spend time with him- _how can anyone be so damn lovely?_

But whenever he gets back to his room, he ends up frustrated and _exhausted_ . They’re being _nice_ , he knows he shouldn’t be this angry- but it’s strong emotions alone that can consume his thoughts and keep the emptiness at bay. No matter how many little stories they tell, how many tiny things that come back to him...

Jesse doesn’t show up to breakfasts, he sleeps well into the morning because he lies _awake_ well into the night. Thinking, getting nowhere. Breathing, but he doesn’t quite feel real. He spends his nights the same way: when he rolls into the stuffy bed and pulls the covers over him (much to the dismay of his overheating body- but he can’t sleep without them), he ends up by no fault of his own looking at the little array of pictures he’s set out for himself. He recalls what he knows, lets the four-bullet-point list grow. He keeps repeating it to himself like some kind of soothing mantra- he’s scared of losing them. They’re all he has.

With this help he’s now starting to get a grasp of the dire situation in which he has been so unfortunately placed. He is now beginning to see that everything’s like a little puzzle in his mind- and the people around him are helping collect the pieces, one by one, or sometimes in handfuls. Or no- no, it’s a broken mirror, and he’s putting the fragments back in place. The multitude of cracks and splinters in the glass all blossom from one single definitive point- the exact moment that signals where everything shattered ( _slipping, falling_ ). Some pieces are big and some are tiny- some are irretrievable, he doesn’t like to think about those. Nevertheless, he goes on searching. Little by little he can see more of himself, who he is, who he was. But the full picture is a mile away, and every minute is exhausting. And picking up the pieces isn’t always easy. Sharp glass can cut.

Just one thing is on his mind- the archer, Hanzo. He’s known the man four days and already the confusion and resentment and _guilt_ that he makes Jesse feel is becoming some obsession. More than anything else offered to him, he wants to know about _the nature of our relationship_. Which is where Genji comes in.

Dawn of the fourth day, and a discontented metallic screeching from his console is what awakens him- at first he jumps out of his bed (topples a little, steadies himself) thinking it’s an alarm, that they’re under attack-- after a quick inspection, his theory is debunked. A small envelope icon flashes innocently on screen, and he flops into the chair in a mix of both relief and frustration. As he pushes down on the blinking icon, he takes a mental note to _get a new ringtone, one that sounds less like a death rattle._ And then, he reads;

_I wish to speak with you sometime today, if you are not busy. I will be spending the morning on the communication tower._

_-Genji_

_[Sent from Communicator 3978_91 at 06:21, 29/07]_

Jesse blinks. He rubs his eyes, and reads the message over a few times. The short and to-the-point message provides many more questions than answers, but there’s one thing that fuels Jesse to snap out of the dreary state of sleepiness and pull on his clothes as fast as humanly possible; this talk might bring him some closure, bring up some answers, explain everything. He thinks. He _hopes_. He ignores the heavy throbbing in his head. Pockets the meds by his bedside to take if he needs them.

The balmy air hits him as soon as the glassy doors slide open, and he steps outside. It feels fresh and the breeze carried on it for a brief moment rushes through his hair, refreshing, relaxing. He stands and takes it in for a few seconds (the gentler heat, the light, the contentedly whirring security bots on their morning sentry, the vibrant green leaves and the less frequent yellowing ones, curling in on themselves floating down from the branches of nearby trees to rest with few others on the grassy sun-dappled floor). He’s suddenly thankful for his early and somewhat unorthodox wake-up call. After a short walk, he spots Genji’s lithe form sitting atop the comm tower, the ribbon at the back of his head fluttering in some higher wind. Jesse climbs the tower as fast as he can.

“Good morning.” Genji greets him, with what Jesse assumes to be a cheerful wave. He wonders if there’s a smile behind that mask. “It is good to see you- I did not expect you to be up so early.” There is a laugh- Genji’s accent is strong even after years away from Japan. Jesse’s own light chuckle is a little stiff- as if to say _I didn’t expect myself to be up this early either_.

“Naw, ‘s my pleasure.” Jesse drawls, forces a smile anyway, his fingers instinctively brush the brim of his hat. He does that a lot. A strained pause falls between them. “You wan’ed to talk about somethin’?”

Genji sucks in a breath- a distant sound, distorted and metallic from the thick cybernetic mask that covers his face. And yet it isn’t lifeless. There’s something so very human about him that no omnic can emulate. The way he swings his feet off the side of the tower with near-childlike abandon, the way he fans himself in a manner Jesse concludes must be subconscious (seeing as it wouldn’t _actually_ work). He way he pats the panel next to him amiably in an invitation for Jesse to sit. Jesse is almost pushed to ask what he actually is ( _“cyborg ninja” ain’t exactly enlightening_ )- but decides against it. He sits, suppressing the dull stabbing aches in his muscles where he was _shot_ ( _son of a gun_ ) and leans into the breeze ever so slightly as Genji starts;

“As you may have guessed, I want to talk about my brother.”

The laxness of Jesse’s posture disappears in an instant- Genji is still swinging his legs, his green visor trained down at the clear cerulean sea.

“I do not wish to excuse his actions- by all means, how he has treated you since you awoke has been unacceptable. I have had words with him about it. Yet, I would like to explain to you. Hanzo is…” Genji pauses, a hum of consideration caught on his lips as he carefully picks the right words. “A troubled man.”

 _It don’t take rocket science to tell that_ , Jesse muses- _The fella’s a walkin’ crisis, far as I can tell._

“Despite what his actions suggest, his intent is not to harm you. He has taken it upon himself to carry a burden that should be shared. It was no single man’s fault, what happened to you.”

Another deep, filtered breath.

“Our mission was simply to prevent a Talon attack in Vientiane- we had been informed from several anonymous sources of the premeditated acts of violence that were to coincide with an omnic-human public event. A memorial of peace, which they intended to disrupt.” Jesse feels a shudder pass through his whole body at the thought- and the sound of Genji’s voice. Before, amiable- now bitter, angry but tempered with such reverence, he sounds like he has control down to a simple science. “The mission was going according to plan. We had nearly cornered the leading agent of the attack. Our plan was to send you through the teleporter set up on the second-highest of three planes, where he was, so you could prevent him from escaping. It would have been stay put, or fall, but-” (A sharp intake of breath.) “You did not come out of the other side. We waited for what felt like hours- no longer than a minute. Your comm was down. In a state of sudden panic, we sent Hanzo- who was on the highest building- to shoot down at him. Get him caught in the fire of scatter arrows- buy time if nothing else. Until the teleporter signal returned and, disoriented, you emerged around the corner-- and straight into the fire.”

_Blue streaks._

Jesse can tell this is taking all of Genji’s effort to recount. That it had been a painful blunder for the team. Still, he maintains a calm body language. Pushes on.

“And you fell. You sustained multiple head injuries on the fall- as well as the damage from Hanzo’s arrows… I caught you, but-”

 _Slipping, falling_.

He does not follow up. He shifts uncomfortably, Jesse hangs off his every sentence. There’s one word blaring through his mind, flashing red, shrieking like a siren;

_Accident. Accident. It was an accident._

“Satya has been looking in to the malfunction of the teleporter. We have decided it’s best not to use it until we can assure it’s safe… My brother says you made direct eye contact-- before you fell.” An additional musing, on Genji’s part- this is something Jesse remembers. His eyes- _those eyes, he’s seen those eyes before--_ “Now he has taken the responsibility of what happened upon himself. I believe he is finding it very difficult to cope with what he deems to be a ‘failure’ on his part. No thanks to his upbringing.”

There is pain in Genji’s voice- it’s thick in the low sweeps of his words, clear as day. Jesse snaps out of the distant memory he’s trying to piece together- the teleporter, the agent, slipping, _falling_. Something strikes him as odd- he can’t keep his mouth shut long enough not to ask-

“Hold up- _his_ upbringin’? Ain’t you two brothers?” Jesse once again finds himself chiding his own words, a voice not all too unfamiliar in his ears, _now who said you could talk, young man? The adults are havin’ a conversation._

Instead of a scolding, Genji gives him what he thinks might be a sad smile- but it’s difficult to tell under the visor, it’s just a look at him. He guesses from the sound of Genji’s voice;

“Yes, but it was… Different. He was the eldest, the heir of the Shimada-gumi. His education was… far stricter than mine.”

Jesse guesses that’s putting it nicely.

“Well- thanks for ‘splainin’ all this, Genji. Guess I owe ‘im an apology.” He moves a little, as if intending to get up, but then stops and, before he can nervously reconsider, asks; “One more question-?”

“Yes?”

Well, now he’s gone and done it. He _has to ask now_ . _No take-backsies_.

“Er-- me an’ Hanzo… What was, uh-- What was goin’ on between us?”

Genji’s gaze remains locked on the waves lapping at the rocky shore. He hums. “It may be better to hear this from him but… Something tells me he will not enlighten you on the matter. You were…” He makes an awkward noise in his throat, the discomfort of the sound amplified through the synthetic breather of the mask. “In, er… _Romantic_ involvements.”

Jesse almost chokes on thin air. “You’ve _gotta_  be kidding me--” He doesn’t intend to sound so disgusted- he’s considered this option; he doesn’t know why it shocks him as much as it does. Hanzo’s a perfectly attractive man, after all. And yet he’s half hoping this is some kind of joke because hearing that is something akin to a _brick to the face_ . He could’ve at least _prepared_ him for the truth of the matter--

Genji snorts, an odd little laugh garbled by the robotic breather. He says “That’s what _I_ said when you first told me.” and a cool, nigh-chilling sensation of very distant déja-vu ripples through Jesse. _Yes, he did._ “The first few months you knew each other, you bickered and fought the whole time. Something changed at one point, I do not know what… But you made for a good pair. Albeit odd.”

Jesse finds himself staring down at his arms again. Scars pale against the red burning skin. Prosthetic workings rusting and in dire need of an upgrade. Someone loved this. If Genji’s telling the truth. He thinks hard, harder than he knew he could in his current state-

“Sounds… about right.” He mumbles. _A cowboy and a samurai- ‘bout as likely as Romeo and Juliet_. And yet, here they are. The gravity of his situation once again begins weighing down on him. Until he’s snapped from his daze by a voice calling up;

“Hey, Genji!”

They both twist around, Lúcio is darting around on his skates when he comes to a halt and waves- “Oh Eastwood- didn’t expect to see you here! Waddup?!”

Lúcio makes clear his intentions to join them, taking out his headphones, slinging them lazily around his neck and beginning to scale the monumental metal structure. He uses the stairs half the time- the rest spent playfully opting to climb with surprising agility up the metal bars to haul himself onto the upper panelling where they are sitting, and start up a new, far less heavy conversation. His surprise appearance seems to soothe them both substantially- his presence like a drug, addictive, calming, energising. Only, without the bad parts, the aftereffects, coming down from the high. Jesse’s fairly sure Lúcio can do him no harm. The next hour flies by- it swiftly becomes two, then three, then before they know it they’re late for lunch. They sit on the comm tower like three old friends, telling stories, jokes, listening to Lúcio’s wild stories, or Genji’s objectively epic tales that Jesse comments “sound like somethin’ Reinhardt’d watch”. They stay like that for a long time. They put their inconveniences aside and let the wind carry their laughter out over the bay.

\--

Being around others improves Jesse’s mood- it distracts him from the empty mirror frame, the blind spots, the fact that when he’s alone all he can think about is how empty he is. Genji and Lúcio are _therapeutic_ . When he leaves them, he gets the same sick feeling of vulnerability that he got when Angela first left him to speak to Winston- he feels like suddenly more than ever before he _needs_ them. So they really are like a drug; aftermath and all. It’s on his mind as he walks away from the kitchens having received a scolding from Torbjorn for being late to lunch, and a scolding from Angela for smoking in the area _while_ being told off by Torbjorn. As his vision from the other day had predicted- she had plucked the cigarillo out from his lips and threw it in the bin with a fairly lengthy lecture on why it will compromise his health if he continues. And like always ( _always? always_ ) he batted off the warning with some remark or another.

Something lingers in his thoughts, he wonders- why exactly had he thought for a split second she would stub it out on _him_?

A tingling, prickling sensation burns under his skin. He pushes the idea away. No, she would never.

Next on his mental to-do list? Talk to Hanzo, like Genji had urged him before they had gone to late-lunch, with one last piece of worldly advice;

 _Hanzo is a dragon._ He’d said. _Rare are those who earn his trust and even rarer those who can tame him. One must be mindful should they wish not to scare him away; when stripped down to bare instinct, a dragon is but a wild animal like any other._

And Jesse’s lying if he says he isn’t a little apprehensive. Regardless of his rattled nerves, he’s got more on his mind- he’s still lost, confused, _alone_ without the two… his _friends_ . And now his feelings on Hanzo are more mixed than ever. He wishes he could go back to hating him- that was how it was just a few hours ago. It just _has_ to be more complicated, _doesn’t it?_ Only now _he_ feels entitled to apologise.

With directions from Genji, Jesse makes his way to Hanzo’s room and gives the door a tentative knock. _Careful,_ he thinks _, so as not to scare the wild animal._ The door is opened very slightly to reveal Hanzo’s face through the gap- tired, wary, on guard. His eyes bore into Jesse with a penetrating stare. Jesse tries his best to ignore it.

“Howdy.”

“What do you want?” Deadpanned. More like a statement than a question. Jesse breathes in through his teeth.

“I’ve been thinkin’, Hanzo,” (The archer seems to wince at the use of his name.) “We got off on the wrong foot. I wanna say sorry for jumpin’ to conclusions- if you’ll be willin’ to forgive.”

Jesse leans against the doorframe, his figure slightly bent so his eyes are more level with Hanzo’s- his hip out to the side, prosthetic hand resting daintily on it in expectation. _Rule Two of dealing with wild animals: keep as close to their level as you can._

Reluctantly, Hanzo opens the door slightly more- they talk face to face.

“Forgiven.” He mumbles cagily- Jesse can tell from his stance he’s uneasy, the way one hand twists into the silky fabric of his yukata ( _sky blue and silvery today_ ). His shoulders are pushed back and his spine is straight as an arrow. His expression is fixed into a cautious frown. He’s not going to budge. So Jesse goes on.

“Maybe we could spend some time together, get to know each other.” Something in Hanzo’s face reads _but I already know you_ \-- but he cocks his head ever so slightly in curiosity. _Take the bait_.

“...What exactly did you have in mind?”

_Movies? No, he doesn’t seem like the type. Karaoke night? God no. Video games? Maybe, but Hanzo don’t seem like the kind’a fun-loving guy…_

“How ‘bout we train together?” He suggests- his voice warmer than the weather outside after this idea occurs to him. “Do some target practise? I get to see you sling some arrows?”

And then the cheery southern strains of his voice stop and patiently wait while Hanzo processes the request. “You want…” He arches a brow quizzically- “To train with me?”

“Call it a team-buildin’ exercise if nothin’ else.”

 _Patience. Let the dragon come to you_.

Hanzo sighs- his eyes scour the floor as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world for two, maybe three seconds before he looks up at Jesse. Something’s _changed_. “Very well, if that is what you wish. I will see you after dinner.”

\--

By all means, he should be happy. He’s going to clear things up with Hanzo. Which is more than he could ever ask. But somehow, Jesse feels even more miserable in the afternoon. While a group chat was assembled between himself, Genji and Lúcio (which Lúcio had insisted on calling _The Dream Team™_ , though it will probably be a short-lived name), they had both been called to a mission briefing with Winston and Lena directing. He spends the afternoon staring up, counting the cracks in the ceiling. Counting the bullet points on his list. The cans on the floor. The spiders in the uppermost corners. Dreading the arrival of the evening, looking at the time every few seconds.

He decides to take a shower eventually, wash away the film of sweat that returns with the ever heating day. The score he keeps in his mind sardonically ticks over.

_Hanzo- 2, Jesse- 1_

 

He’s not ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y’alls for reading so far! If you’re enjoying it, if you’ve got ideas, criticisms, anything- just leave a comment, I live off feedback!  
> NOTES:  
> -I only have 15 minutes of free WiFi to upload this and edit the mistakes in the previous chapters I’ve pointed out, so please shoot me a comment if you notice anything off with the formatting!  
> -This is a re-upload; I don't know why, but chapter 3 disappeared earlier today :'0  
> -How To Train Your Dragon: The McHanzo fic y’all never wanted.  
> -Hahahahah I accidentally extended the idea for this chapter over two chapters (this one and the next) because it works better you’ll see [throws self into the sun don’t worry I’ll update soon]  
> -I spread my foreshadowing like I spread my butter- lots of it, and then I cover it in other content (jam) so you can’t see it til you get to it. (Disclaimer: this is untrue- I don’t like butter)  
> -I actually can’t wait for the drama that ensues in a few chapters time! I’ve been planning it so much and I’m so excited to get around to writing it when the time comes- I promise, you’ll love it <3  
> -Genji and Lúcio and Jesse are my official brot3 in this fic I’m sorry I didn’t mean for it to come to this.  
> -Hope you’re enjoying my dumb fic! The vibes are almost here and I’m ReAdY--
> 
> Find me on tumblr @eltheking and as always, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been one and a half years and this fic has been haunting me. After a long consideration, I'm bringing it back to life. The overwhelming amount of support I've had for this has been more than I could ever dream of! After a while of going back through this fanfic and changing a few things to the plot of future chapters (not dramatically, mind, it is still the same fic it was going to be), I'm ready to start again! Mind I haven't written in a long time, but I'm hoping with practise I can maintain the standard you all deserve.  
> So please, without further ado, enjoy the rest of Broken Mirror- and as always, your feedback is so appreciated!

“As I recall, we are here to _train_ , not idly chat. If you intend to continue, take your leave.”

 _Snap_.

The discordant twang of a bowstring bouncing back into place resounds and reverberates around the training range, and Jesse watches the swift ripple of sinew move up Hanzo’s arms and back as he lets loose another arrow to hit a moving target head-on. _Perfect aim_ . Then two, then three arrows at once pulled back between strong and supple fingers, fired in unison. _Perfect_. They hit dead centre on all three.

Jesse whistles; “Boy howdy, you sure are one hell of a shot.” and he’s met with a gaze of mild irritation in response. “Alright, right, I hear ya. No chitchat.”

Training Range 2 is a wide hall of white walls and targets to facilitate seemingly every type of combat. There’s a sharp, invasive taste of metal in the air, it agitates him with familiarity and something keeps coming back to him, an image he can’t quite place his finger on. Against his better judgement Jesse lets the scene flood into his mind, and all his anxieties, his tiredness, all his confused thoughts and feelings about Overwatch, about Hanzo-- suddenly, all his senses are drowned.

_Hot smoke fills his lungs and the sharp, sanguine tang of blood smacks across his lips- he’s gripping his gun like it’s his god damn birthright and his shredded knuckles are bone white with tension--_

_( Breathe, Jesse. )_

_Breathe_ . That- _who is that?_ Jesse’s eyes snap open. The walls of the training range seem to stare back at him. _Breathe. Who is that?_ A faceless, nameless, disembodied voice handing out practical advice. That’s _really_ gonna start to grind his gears if it keeps up.

The ghostly whispers make a pit of unease settle in his stomach, thick and heavy. He does his best to push it to the back of his mind and let it turn over and over in his subconscious so he can place the forefront of his concentration on watching, listening to ( _hell, maybe even befriending if I’m lucky_ ) Hanzo- the archer is making steady work through every target in the range.

There’s something to be admired about the way Hanzo moves when he trains; poised yet relaxed- maybe it’s just his conscious mind catching up to what was learned by heart, but Jesse is suddenly, profoundly aware of how pretty Hanzo is up close. It’s some magic in each well placed step, each inconsequential flick of his hair or the strong but subtly girlish curl of his fingers- the deft sweep of his arm as he draws back another arrow, the patience of his excellent aim. Practiced, _perfection_. And in this, the place where his confidence lies, he looks like a guy who’s never broken a sweat in his life.

The illusion is really quite stunning- and then he breaks it when he turns to throw a look over his shoulder at Jesse, catching him off guard.

“Are you going to join me?”

_Breathe._

“Oh yeah, sure.” Jesse’s hand goes down to graze the grip of the Peacekeeper resting by his hip, by instinct if nothing else. He moves from where he’s leaning against the wall and steps up to the silver line that marks the start of the range.

_In like the tide._

There’s something so very scary about it; it feels like the first time he’s held a gun, and yet at the same time nothing has ever felt so familiar. His thumb traces the scrapes and deep grooves in the grip, acquired over years of service. It’s a map he knows by heart.

Somewhere within him, a power-high confidence bubbles up and though he doesn’t know the face, can’t hear the name, the wisps of voice make sense to him.

( _Draw._ ) The trigger feels religious under his finger, he lives by it, it’s all he believes; tentative pressure- ( _keep your eyes open, remember to breathe_ ). A voice rings in his ears ( _how’s your aim?_ ) and his eyes dart up to Hanzo who silently inspects him with some withdrawn reverence from a few feet away.

_Perfect, ma’am._

His arm guides the revolver up with caution, veneration; experienced hands and muscle memory take control.

The ghost taste of blood and asphalt is overwhelming as he takes a moment to shoot down each target- he sees it like it’s second nature, each flick his wrist has to make. The inharmonious sound of gunshots and metal on metal fills the training range as his prosthetic hand assaults the Peacekeeper’s hammer.

And then, silence. Every target has stopped ( _dead_ ) in its tracks. He lets out a breath, softens his tense hold on the revolver which has turned his knuckles nearly white. The smoke and blood in his mind dissipates. His instructor gone in an instant, and Hanzo watching him with the same hawk like gaze as always.

Ma always told him not to show off, that it was _a mite uncivil_ and _you oughtn't to take talent for granted, young man_ \- but in front of the impeccable, searing judgement of the dragon, surely there was a little room for bending the rules.

“A’course I wanna join you.” He twirls the trigger guard around his finger (narrowly avoiding an oddly placed spur to the wrist- _the hell’s that doing there?_ ) and blows the remnants of smoke from the muzzle like the hero of one of Reinhardt’s movies;

“If, that is, you’re thinkin’ you can keep up the pace.”

“Please.” Hanzo snorts and Jesse sees the twitch of a competitive smirk creep onto his features at this little proposition- “I’m just warming up.”

It’s hardly intimacy, it’s hardly amity, but Jesse feels for the first time like he’s made progress.

\--

It’s past midnight when Jesse returns to his room. The Gibraltar Watchpoint is haunted by quiet, only broken the distant chirp of bugs. The rec room is almost empty when he walks by- save Satya and one Jamison Fawkes- they’re talking in hushed voices and Jesse had no intention of joining them. So he lies back on his bed.

Silence brings the world to a standstill. It always has, ever since he woke up with nothing but a name and a slew of random, unreachable memories (seeing as that is all Jesse really has to go by, he thinks for now that it qualifies as his “always”). In the quiet of the hot, sleepless night Jesse showers the new slick sheen of sweat from his body then busies himself with fixing the ringtone on his console to something less nails-on-a-chalkboard uncomfortable. Working the damn thing is a nightmare, he must be getting old- it takes him a good ten minutes to navigate his way to the _System Settings_ screen.

He leans back for a moment, letting wet, uncombed tresses of hair cool his forehead and takes a deep breath in, lets a long sigh out. Jesse’s room smells of alcohol and smoke and the unpleasant damp slowly consuming the far corner of the ceiling. His floor is still covered in cans and the bourbon bottle rests on the windowsill glinting in the stretching bars of setting starlight.

The room is an untouched shrine to what was. What preceded his “always” and worked back into a murky blackness he is yet to uncover ( _if I manage at all_ ). He spends long minutes staring up at the ceiling and a sudden tightness tugs at his chest.

Despite the brief images of carnage that plagued his mind for the first few minutes of practise- the distant vision of survival, the kind yet eerie voice of an all-too-familiar instructor- he _enjoyed_ training together with Hanzo. Athena set up a clever combat simulation that trumped target practise by far, and pushed Jesse to what are at the moment his realistic limits. All haunting past aside Jesse has only one thing in mind when he swipes his fingers clumsily over the touch screen console. He doesn't even think before he pushes send on a hastily crafted message-

 

_We should train again sometime._

_-McCree_

 

There's an odd stillness, anxiety gnaws at his gut like he knew it would- like it always does- but a glimmer of hope also flickers in his mind. He does not expect only 3 minutes to pass before the sound of an incoming message assaults his ears and he dashes to check the console screen.

 

_I will see you tomorrow evening then._

_-Hanzo_

_[Sent from Communicator 3978_98 at 03:21, 30/07]_

 

Despite himself Jesse laughs and leans back. The gripping feeling in his chest eases. He closes his eyes and lets the quiet flood back in around him.

 

_Hanzo - 2, Jesse -  
_

 

He supposes he no longer needs to keep score. He supposes they’re even now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a hugely long chapter- but it gets some important business out of the way. And I haven't written properly in like a year so give me a break :')  
> Notes;  
> -God I fucking missed this fic guys  
> -And thus, the start of something beautiful...ish.  
> -Sort out your feelings, chicken leg man, you ain't doin ur man jesse any justice.  
> -heuhuehue backstory coming soon huehuehue  
> -I really, really hope you enjoy this! It's been a long time, but I love this fic and I love everyone who's been kind enough to leave their feedback on it. Next chapter should be up before the end of January at the latest. I'm too invested now, I can't abandon it again :')
> 
> Find me on tumblr @eltheking and as always, thanks for reading!


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